


A (Un)Frank Conversation

by Romanumeternal



Series: Olia and Quintus [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, Master/Slave, Soul-Searching, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29111271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanumeternal/pseuds/Romanumeternal
Summary: Newly acquired by her lover, a slave muses on what she can - and can't - tell the man she loves(This is a very old one, heavily adapted from one lurking in the dusty archives of my livejournal).
Series: Olia and Quintus [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1115457
Kudos: 8





	A (Un)Frank Conversation

I relax, and let my body slump into Quintus’ even more, my head resting softly against his shoulder as we both recline on his bed. One of his arms is around me, gently cupping a breast – but doing no more than that – and another is idly stroking my hair. I can feel his chest moving, hear his breathing, and I close my eyes in contentment.   
Outside, its blowing a fearful gale, powerful enough to rattle the windows as raindrops are hurled fruitlessly against the glass – but inside its warm and cosy, despite the howling outside.

But then, Quintus’ room has always been cosy. Neat, of course, and clean – he might not be the most naturally tidy of men, but he does have slaves to look after it for him – but somewhat eccentric, all the same. The bed is in the corner, but most of the long, narrow room is taken up with shelves, with a great desk (and chair to match) by the window. Most of the shelves are books, but there are other things on there as well, without much rhyme or reason. Old brass technical instruments mingle with antique weaponry and unusual rocks and fossils. It is, undeniably, a masculine room – but still, cosy in its own way – and certainly nicer than mine.

Both of us are full, and contentedly lazy. Sia, I think, with a moment of amusement, would perhaps be disappointed we’re not screwing like rabbits. She did, after all, serve pomegranate and chicken for dinner tonight, and every Roman man swears that that is the best dish to eat prior to lovemaking. (Preferably, of course, with oysters beforehand – but I think the Dominus – my former Dominus, I should now say – would have realised Sia’s little joke if she did that. And he would not have been terribly amused; no matter how much I think secretly it pleases him that I serve his son willingly). 

“An as for your thoughts, Olly?” asks Quintus, idly, yet suddenly.

“Sir-Dominus?” I say, grinning at the rapid correction. He chuckles, and very gently, slaps the side of my head – an affectionate gesture to a slave who has made a minor, and rather amusing, mistake. In utter fairness to me, he has been legally my dominus for less than six hours. 

“An as for your thoughts?” he repeats.

“Oh…nothing much” I say, twisting myself around so I’m grinning up at the man who owns me, mind body and soul. I pause. “Just…thinking.”

“Deep and dark thoughts?” he asks, and I can’t restrain a slight laugh.

“Dark and bloody thoughts; from the steam and mire of the gore-flecked swamp/rose about his tormented face/as he saw the gold and jewels in that fevered mirage/the savage Gods did whisper”.

Quintus rolls his eyes; unlike me, he’s never been into poetry, beyond the more bombastic patriotic songs every Roman child learns.

“Wait, don’t tell me…the Tragedy of Gallius?” 

“You win a prize” I say, and wink at him. “And the prize is your very own Atzlanian slavegirl. Rather suitable, considering the poem."

He smiles fondly at me. “What a coincidence. I just acquired one today. A bit mouthy, doesn’t know her place, but with a primitive charm of her own.” He strokes my hair again, and I look at him, more seriously this time.

“So what’s it like, dominus?” I ask him, curiously. I shift position, getting more comfortable on the bed, which is soft almost to the point of decadence. I might have not become Quintus' – what? Bedmate? Lover? Concubine? - for the frills, no matter what anyone might say, but I'd be lying if I said I don't occasionally appreciate them. Certainly, his bed is far larger, and more comfortable, then the rickety cot I shared with Lukaminka. “How does it feel to own your very own slavegirl, dominus?”

Quintus laughs, and then sobers slightly, as he realises that the question is serious. Mostly, the only mention of my status comes in the form of a gentle joke – and even then, he’s more cautious than I in making them. 

“No different, really. All that has changed is that my name now appears on a piece of paper whilst previously it was my father’s name. I don't think it changes anything important.” He looks at me, curiously. “How. What about you?”

“Interesting question, dominus” I say. In a sense he is right. It isn’t really as if I haven’t served him more than anyone else in the Callarius family for a couple of years now, nor is it the case that going forward I purely beyond to him. Day to day, I doubt that it will make much difference that, today, Quintus’ father sat down opposite him and formally handed him a sheet of paper, signing over ownership of me to his son. And besides, it wasn’t as if before he didn’t, effectively, own me. He was the son of a Senator and I a slave, and the number of slaves in the People’s Republic who don’t consider their owner’s children to be effectively their owners too is vanishingly small. 

But, on the other hand, it does change things – for I now belong utterly to Quintus Amelius Antonius Callarius. Legally, he can now do whatever he wants to me – fuck me, whip me, sell me to a brothel, throttle me. Of course he’s no more likely to do that that defect to Yaruk with a train of dancing girls…but I’d be lying if I said there was no part of my mind completely free from anxiety. What if he stops loving me? What if another girl catches his eye? What if he is angry with me, for whatever reason? What if he feels compelled to remind the world, or himself, or me, of who owns who? What if I somehow end up failing to please him? What if, what if…?

I shrug. “Not really, dominus.” This might not be the truth, but it is what my lover wants to hear, and I’ve no desire to hurt him with all the thoughts I sometimes have. He’s a free citizen, when all is said and done, and so I think he would struggle to understand them; would struggle to realise that I don’t have these thoughts because he’s not a wonderful, caring, loving man, but that I would have these thoughts regardless of whether he’s a wonderful, caring, loving man – that there are some thoughts a slave can’t help but have, no matter how kind and liberal her owner. And, whilst both of us might wish it otherwise, he owns me. 

Sometimes, the chasm between us is immense; and other times it might not exist at all. The trick is, I think, to pretend that when there is that chasm, that I don't notice it – that I don't notice it when Quintus coldly remarks that testing medical products on slaves is fully justified if it stops 'actual people' getting ill, or chuckles at some 'humorous' article in the paper about some runaway who got caught by making a foolish mistake. 

“There. Great minds think alike, and all that.”

“Fools seldom differ, dominus.”

“Huh.” He pauses for a second, and then, in a slightly nervous voice, says:

“You know, you don't have to call me dominus, you know. When we're alone.” He cracks a smile. “I do have a name.”

“Four of them, in fact” I say, flippantly – and then I immediately regret those words, as I see that he is now in earnest. I take his hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“I'm not sure that's wise, dominus.”

Quintus looks at me sharply.

"Why do you say that?"

Every slave is always playing a role, no matter how intimate they are with you. Its the same with me and Quintus. No matter how much I love him, I'll never bare my soul completely to him.

"Well" I smile, as though I'm careless of the whole thing "it might give people the wrong idea."

"And when we're in private?" he asks, coldly.

"Well" I squirm, slightly. How to explain, how to explain? The fact is, if I call him Quintus in private, how long before I call him it by accident in public? Our relationship is only tolerated because, whenever anyone can see, Quintus and myself stick rigidly to how people think we should act. He speaks to me kindly but briskly in public, snaps orders, spares me as little attention as possible. If we start becoming more intimate, then we run the risk of losing everything. I like to think that, in the end, Quintus values me more than he does his dignitas – but he does value it, hugely, in the way that only a cripple who doesn’t have much of it can.

But there is something else as well. If I call him Quintus - that erases the barrier between us. And, although in one sense I truly wish we were equals; that barrier does have its uses. It forces me to remember that no matter what each of us thinks and feels, he does have total power over me. It forces me to remember that I have the same standing as his chair or tablet or desk. In short, it forces me to be careful, to be mindful, to be cautious. To be aware, as every slave who values his or her skin has to be, that things can always change for the worse.

Of course, I can't say any of that to him. It would break his heart; and no matter what his status, he does not deserve that.

"Its just...why, dominus?" I grin. "I'm sort of used to calling you it now. 'Quintus' would mean change." I smirk. "And you're as much of a Romulist as your father. You hate things changing. Says so on your Party card." 

I smile, raising my eyebrows, as always part of me playing a role. True, the role is pretty close to how I often am - how I would have survived an owner (Quintus' darling sister Julia, for instance) who is not tolerant of my impudence is a question I prefer not to think about. I've always enjoyed mocking the free, and Quintus is smart enough to enjoy me doing so, even when my wit is aimed at him. 

Still, even now, part of me is being calculating, performing for an audience. By reminding Quintus of that fact I'm far from a servile, cringing whore, I'm showing him why he values me - and that I'm not the broken sort who only calls him 'Dominus' out of fear.

Although, I will admit, gently teasing him, and sometimes bursting his tendency to be slightly pompous, is amusing as well. 

He looks at me narrowly, but my impudence has distracted him.

"Funny, funny" he mutters, and then smiles. "One day, that mouth of yours will get you into trouble."

"You've been saying that for so long, Dominus, it has lost all meaning."

"Julia's been saying that for so long, it has lost all meaning." He smirks. He adores his little sister, but teasing her is a joy he is unable to forgo. And he knows that the fact he doesn't see me as just a tool that talks annoys her - although I doubt he knows how much.

I give him a Look. It is probably quite similar to the Look your maid gives you when you consider calling your ex at three in the morning when drunk.

He grins, utterly unabashed. 

"Not amusing?" he asks, innocently, and my Look deepens into an actual frown.

"Funny, dominus" I say. I sigh, melodramatically. "Of course, since you now own me, please ascribe my lack of reaction to not wanting to laugh in case I break a rib.” 

“You mean – you now have to find my jokes funny?” He grins. “Oh, this opens up so many possibilities, Olia.” He pauses. “What did the sea anemone say to the clam?”

I raise my voice, imploring the ceiling “O, Almight Jove! Why hast thou delivered me into the hands of this monster? For all men knoweth he torments his slaves with terrible jokes!”

Quintus snorts with laughter. "You always say the sweetest things" he says, and pulls me in for a hug. I hug back, enjoying the feeling of warmth against my skin, of another body close to mine, and for a moment, sheer happiness almost overwhelms me.

I'm hugging a dear, sweet man, who treats me as an equal and who loves me, and how many girls in my position can say that? Indeed, how many people can say that, regardless of their status?

I look back at him, smiling again, and kiss him on the lips. He returns the kiss – and one of his hands gives my breast a slight squeeze. I push myself against him, feeling suddenly rather less lazy and rather more amorous. From the hardness I can feel against the inside of my leg, I’m not the only one.

Running a hand down his lean, slender body, I grin, and look straight into his deep, blue eyes. 

“You know dominus, I’m not really sure you do own me” I say, smiling. 

“Oh?” says Quintus. No doubt his sharp mind has already worked out where this is going, but he’s playing along. He feigns confusion, cocking him his handsome, aquiline face curiously. 

“No” I say, teasingly. “I think you have to make me yours”.

**Author's Note:**

> The Tragedy of Gallius is a long poem written by Pontius Salvian. On its surface a telling of the struggles of Otho Marcellus Gallius to build the 'Gallian canal', which now runs though the narrowest point of Terranova, it is in reality a musing on how lust for gold and glory can drive any man to madness and cruelty.
> 
> Dignitas - not purely 'dignity', dignitas is something possessed only by a male citizen. A man of dignitas is respected and admired by his peers, keeps to Roman traditions and mores, is of the highest integrity, and has accomplishments to his name.


End file.
